Page 90 of Blades Out
But I let myself hold it, anyway.
Because the alternative—living in constant fear of a man who might never come—felt worse than the risk of being wrong.
The arena roared. Even from the café, I felt it—a physical thing that vibrated through the floor, shook the cups in their stacks, made my pulse match the rhythm of skates on ice. Friday night games carried a different energy. Louder. Wilder. The kind of crowd that came ready to scream themselves hoarse.
I loved it.
The realization surprised me. But somewhere between Monday's numbness and tonight's controlled chaos, something had shifted. My hands moved faster now. No hesitation reaching for the right cup size. No fumbling the register when three people shouted orders at once. Muscle memory had kicked in, turned panic into precision.
I was getting good at this.
Jenna had noticed too. Stopped hovering over my shoulder. Stopped double-checking my shots. Started trusting me with the espresso machine during rushes without that pinched look she got when things went sideways.
Which made it all the more frustrating when she gripped the counter midway through the second period, face gone pale and clammy.
"I need to go." Her voice came out thin. Strained. "Food poisoning or something. I can't?—"
"Go." I grabbed her elbow, steadied her. "We've got it."
She looked at Ben, then me, doubt flickering across her features. "The intermission rush is going to be insane."
"We'll manage."
She didn't argue. Just grabbed her bag and fled toward the bathroom, one hand pressed to her mouth.
Ben whistled low. "That looked bad."
"Yeah." I turned back to the counter, adrenaline already sparking under my skin. The crowd noise swelled—period ending soon. Which meant we had maybe three minutes before the flood hit.
The back room felt ten degrees hotter than the main café. I yanked my sweater over my head, tossed it onto the break table without bothering to fold it. Rolled my sleeves up. Pulled my hair into a tighter ponytail.
"Ready?" Ben called from the front.
The buzzer sounded. Doors burst open.
"Ready."
The rush hit like a wave. Bodies pressed against the counter three-deep, everyone shouting orders over each other. Lattes. Cappuccinos. Iced coffees. Muffins. Sandwiches. Hot chocolate somehow, even though half the arena was already overheated. I stopped thinking and just moved—hands flying between register and espresso machine, calling orders to Ben, making change, repeating names I forgot the second they left my mouth.
Someone complained their coffee was too hot. Another argued about almond milk versus oat. A kid knocked over a hot chocolate and I cleaned it mid-transaction without breaking stride.
Ben worked the sandwich press like his life depended on it. Steam rose in clouds around his face. "Two paninis, one coffee cake?—"
"Got it." I grabbed cups, scribbled names in Sharpie with handwriting that devolved into illegible scrawls. Didn't matter. People snatched them anyway, desperate to get back before the period started.
My shirt stuck to my spine. Sweat beaded along my hairline. But my hands stayed steady. No fumbling. No panic. Just flow.
"Next!"
Ben worked the coffee machine like he'd been born to it. We developed a rhythm without discussing it. He'd slide drinks across the counter; I'd hand it off and take payment before the customer finished reaching for their wallet.
Efficient. Seamless.
The kind of teamwork that only came from controlled disaster.
My feet ached. My voice went hoarse from shouting over the noise. And somehow, impossibly, we kept up.
The line eventually thinned. Stragglers grabbed last-minute snacks before the third period started. Ben leaned against the counter, breathing hard, grinning like we'd just won something.
